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by pandorad24
Summary: The story of how Spot Conlon went from abused son, to street rat, to king of Brooklyn.


**My best friend created a monster by introducing me to this movie - I've watched it four times in the past week. You can probably guess who my favorite character is...**

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_~ Home ~_

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Every street rat in the five boroughs knew Spot Conlon's name. From the Bronx down to Staten Island, his reputation was unmatched; he was, to put it simply, the greatest newsie in all of New York City. The King of Brooklyn.

Despite all his fame, no one really knew his history - whenever one of his boys got the nerve to ask him about it, he gave 'em a good biff upside the head and dismissed it as just that. History. If he was being honest with himself, he sometimes wished he could've just been born an orphan. It would've at least saved him eight years' worth of memories from home sweet home.

It was a one-bedroom apartment. No electricity, no hot water in the tap - he remembered having to take freezing baths in a bucket barely big enough for a kid to sit down in. He slept on a ratty mattress in the kitchen. Every room was so cramped and polluted with cigarette smoke that being inside made him feel as though he was suffocating. He hated the place, but not quite as much as he hated the other two people living there with him.

His mother was a drinker. She wasted nearly every penny her husband earned on the bottles that had begun accumulating on the floor. She was good to Spot, when she wasn't nodding off into a drunken stupor or clutching weakly at the toilet bowl after another bout of vomiting. Half the time, he couldn't be sure if she even knew what she was saying when she told him that she loved him.

His father was a complicated man - simultaneously cruel and loving, able to switch between the two instantly. One minute, he was charismatic and friendly. The next, he was throwing six-year-old Spot onto his kitchen mattress, screaming curses, tearing him apart. The man wore a cross around his neck, but he touched more than spirit.

Between the two of them, Spot learned at a young age what it was to feel abandoned, to feel dirty and worthless. Once you hit rock bottom and you've got nothing to lose, there's really just one choice you have left to make. By the time he was eight, he had made up his mind - he was going to live. All he knew was that he had to live, and there was no room in that life for his tiny apartment. The only option was to run away and never look back; so that's just what he did.

The couple of nickels he kept under his pillow didn't last him long on the streets of Brooklyn. Soon he was begging passersby for spare change, fishing pennies out of the gutter and digging through garbage bins for scraps. His stomach had a constant hollow feeling, pulling at his insides as if searching for anything of substance to fill it. Looking back on those days, he realized that he probably would've starved to death if it weren't for Sprint.

It was on one of Spot's lucky days, when he had actually managed to collect enough charity to fill his belly. He was just walking out of the bakery, holding a warm loaf of honest-to-goodness, mouth-watering bread, when a kid came racing by him in a flash and swiped it right out of his hands. Before he even knew what happened, the boy had already turned the corner out of sight.

"Hey!" he called indignantly, his heart sinking in despair. "Hey, get back here!" He began chasing after the boy, though he knew his chances of catching up were slim. Looking around wildly, he spotted a small figure in the distance ducking into an alleyway, and he dashed across the street towards it, causing several coaches to swerve in their tracks. He ran into the alley, breathing heavily, glancing around for the boy but there wasn't a soul in sight. The eight-year-old felt tears prickle his eyes as the desperation set in, and he cried out in frustration. "When I find ya, I'll lick ya good!"

From behind a stack of crates, Spot heard a low, threatening growl that made his blood run cold, followed by a harsh whisper. "Shush, girl! You's tryin' to get us caught?"

Spot cautiously approached the crates, picking up a splintered broom handle from the cobblestones and holding it over his shoulder, ready to swing if necessary. Steeling himself, he shouted, "I know you're in there! Come out, ya lousy coward!" As if that was all the invitation it needed, a dog came leaping out from its hiding place in a rush of matted fur and snapping teeth, barking viciously. Spot scrambled back in fear, holding his broomstick out in front of him like a sword. "Uh, stay, doggy! Good doggy! Get back there, before I clobber ya!"

"What do ya want?" Called the boy from behind the crates.

"What do ya think I want?" Spot retorted angrily. "I want my bread back ya bonehead, I'm starvin'!"

The boy slowly made his way out from the barricade of boxes, Spot's bread in one hand and a thick bone in the other. He whistled through his teeth to his pet and pitched the bone across the alley; the mutt immediately stopped its snarling to chase after it, and began gnawing on the marrow happily. Spot didn't lower his broomstick. "Well? Ya gonna give me back my hard-earned food, or will I have to convince ya?" He jabbed at the air for emphasis, but the boy didn't look very intimidated.

"Hard-earned? You's was beggin' on the street."

"Yeah, and ya snatched it from me!"

"Patches was hungry."

Spot scoffed in disbelief. "The mutt? How 'bout me, huh? I haven't eaten in two days!"

The boy considered this, and then broke the bread in half, holding out a piece to Spot. "I'll let ya have it if ya put the stick down."

Spot reluctantly complied, reaching for the bread and taking a huge bite - he closed his eyes, savoring it. At that moment, it was like the best thing he'd ever tasted. The boy smiled. "There, now we're even!"

Spot wasn't sure if that classified as "even", but wasn't about to argue and have Patches set on him again. He practically inhaled the rest of the bread - his stomach still wasn't quite full, but at least it was no longer trying to digest itself. Glancing over at the other boy, he saw that he had broken up his own half and was feeding a piece of it to the dog, who wagged her shaggy tail appreciatively.

"So," Spot began, hoping to make some conversation - regardless of the circumstance, he didn't know when he would get his next chance to talk with another human being. "Do ya always get your food like that?"

"Like what?" The boy replied around a mouthful of bread. "Stealin' it?"

Spot nodded.

"Yeah. Sure beats beggin'."

"Well, next time take some from a rich guy," Spot grumbled, and the boy laughed.

"I think I like ya, kid. What's your name?"

"Spot, Spot Conlon. You?"

"People call me Sprint."

It was Spot's turn to laugh. "No kiddin'! You's the fastest kid I've ever seen. You could give all the thoroughbreds in Sheepshead Bay a run for their money."

"You bet I could," Sprint agreed smugly. "I've beat every sucker who's tried to race me."

It was no wonder - Sprint was probably no more than a year older than Spot, but his long legs made him at least a foot taller. He had olive skin and a tangled mess of dark hair tucked under a cap, an overgrown (most likely stolen) coat, and trousers with holes worn into the knees. He gave Spot a crooked smile and said, "I can teach ya how to lift all the food ya need, if ya want. We can be partners, you and me. Well, Patches too, o' course."

"Thievin' partners?" Spot asked skeptically.

"Why not? Between the both of us, we'll never have to go hungry again. Ya with me?" He spit into his palm and then held it out expectantly.

Spot grinned. "Guess I can't pass up an opportunity like that." He spit into his own hand, and they shook on it.

From that day forward, the two of them were partners in crime. Sprint taught Spot everything he knew, and he quickly found a knack for deception. Being a considerably slower runner than Sprint, he had to use a stealthy approach - or, more often, take advantage of his natural charm (and, at the time, his little-kid-brand cuteness). Before long he was a skilled pickpocket, and whenever they had a run-in with the cops, he could smooth-talk their way out of trouble and make it look effortless. Sprint was true to his word - for three years, the boys (and dog) never went hungry.

Meanwhile, the newspaper industry was booming. The two of them were seeing more newsies everyday as the demand grew higher, and despite their success as thieves, they were still just a couple of homeless kids barely scraping up enough food for themselves. So there was a certain appeal to the life of a newsie - free boarding, plenty of friends, and if you had the skills, you would always have enough to eat. Gradually, they came to the decision that they needed a stable place to live, and the chance to work a real job. So, early one morning when Spot was about eleven, he and Sprint stood in the square with a bunch of other Brooklyn newsies to wait for the distribution cart, eager to invest in their very first stack of papers.

As it turned out, selling pape's wasn't much different than lifting wallets. It all came down to tricking the target market. He quickly learned that a good newsie doesn't sell pape's, they sell stories - a majority of which had to be elaborated or simply made up. Before long, he was selling up to a thousand a week, nearly twice as many as what Sprint managed (his partner didn't complain, since they continued to split their profits fifty-fifty, the same as in their street days). A natural, the boys called him.

He made several more friends as well. He often sold around Sheepshead, where the Manhattan newsie Racetrack came to bet on the horses. He and Race had a good share of memories together, from late-night games of poker and goofing off around town. By acquaintance, he also got to know some of the other Manhattan boys - namely Jack Kelly, the ringleader.

And, of course, there were the boys back home. He loved 'em all like brothers, really - when you live together, work together, you come to think of everyone as just one big family (it was a better one than he'd ever had, anyway). He'd always admired their leader, Kilt, the son of Scottish immigrants who had orphaned him when their apartment went up in flames. He was the oldest, but more importantly, he was also the smartest newsie in Brooklyn. He always made sure the boys were taken care of, and was respected for it.

Spot remembered talking with Kilt once, as they sat on the docks near the boarding house, letting themselves sun-dry after a swim while some of the others still played in the river below. He noticed the key strung through a shoelace around the older boy's neck, and ventured to ask why he was always the one to lock up the boarding house when they left for work in the morning. "You're the leader," he'd said. "Shouldn't ya get to go first?"

Kilt smiled and told Spot something he'd never forget. "It ain't about goin' first, kid. It's not about sellin' the most pape's or doin' whatever ya want. Bein' leader... Ya gotta live for the boys. Sure, sometimes ya gotta be tough wit' 'em, but at the end of the day, if ya ain't rulin' by trust and respect alone, you've failed 'em all. You've failed Brooklyn."

He took those words to heart. That day, he decided that when he grew up, he would lead the Brooklyn boys. He would be just like Kilt. And, at the ripe old age of thirteen, he got his wish, going down as the youngest leader in newsie history.

His crowning moment came on a bitter cold day in the dead of winter. Muddy snow blanketed the streets and Christmas wreaths hung on every lamppost, the whole city bustling with bundled up shoppers. He was saving up to buy himself a coat, shivering in his thin flannel sleeves as he called out the (somewhat embellished) headline for the day. "Scandalous triple-homicide! Silent Night rings with screams of terror!"

He made a good profit that day. He and the rest of the boys cut through an alley on their way back to the boarding house, eager to warm up their frozen bodies by the fireplace, but were suddenly cut off by a group of men. There was a dangerous glint in their eyes, and he noticed with trepidation that some of them carried crowbars or baseball bats. Spot recognized them as a particularly nasty local gang; up until then, they had never caused any trouble for the newsies, but times were getting more and more desperate.

The gang leader gave them a smirk and said, "Hand over the money quietly, and we'll let ya skip on back home unharmed."

"And what if we don't?" Kilt challenged boldly.

The man reached into his coat and pulled out a gun, pointing it directly at Kilt's heart. "Then you's won't be sellin' any more papers."

One by one, the newsies stepped forward and emptied their pockets into a pillowcase. The whole day's work, all for nothing. Most would probably go hungry that night. Spot could see the murderous expression on Kilt's face, but no one dared make a move while that gun was still pointed their way.

When it was Shortstop's turn, he just stood there, wringing his scarf in shaking hands with his gaze glued to the cobblestones. Shortstop was only seven years old, a little guy who always scanned the paper for baseball stats the second he got one off the cart each morning. Everyone loved the kid so much, the boys were pooling their money together to buy him a mitt for Christmas, since an orphan like him had no hope of buying one himself - especially when he had two little sisters to feed. Seeing him stand there, holding back tears because he couldn't afford to give up that day's profit made Spot's blood boil.

"Cough it up, kid," the man demanded harshly, but Shortstop didn't move.

"Please, mister," he said shakily. "I's got two baby sisters that need it. I... I can't..."

"Do I gotta beat it outta ya?" The man snarled, and one of his thugs stepped forward, raising a crowbar...

Something inside Spot just snapped. In a furious daze, he grabbed the closest thing he could find - some kind of heavy stick - and dashed forward, swinging it at the thug until he lay unconscious in the snow. As if from a distance, he heard someone yelling at him to look out, but he turned too late; a gunshot rang through his ears as pain exploded in his shoulder. The bullet had just grazed him, tearing through his skin at a thousand miles per hour.

Maybe it was the pain, or the adrenaline, or the fierce anger coursing through his veins, but something fueled him to keep going. Hardly missing a beat, he turned on the gang leader, and a streak of gold flashed before his eyes as he swung the stick at his skull. The man went down instantly.

Still riding the rush of energy, Spot turned to face the other thugs, and with fire in his eyes he shouted, "Who's next?"

Amazingly, the men took one look at Spot and the rest of the newsies and must have decided that they were outmatched, retreating immediately back to the streets. Spot was left standing there, as every boy in the alley stared at him in stunned silence. Finally, Kilt laughed and said, "You's is either the bravest kid I ever met, or just plain stupid."

"I couldn't just stand there and let 'im swing at Shorty," Spot replied. "We're the Brooklyn boys... We look out for each other."

For a the longest time, Kilt just stood there, staring at Spot with an incompressible expression. Finally, he smiled and said, "That's right. And from now on, you'll be lookin' out for all of us, Spot." Without another word, he lifted the key from around his neck and ceremoniously placed it over Spot's head, who just stood there in stunned disbelief. Was he dreaming? Was Kilt really appointing him the new leader, right there in the freezing cold alleyway?

Kilt turned back to the crowd of newsies, and addressed them with an air of finality. "I'm nineteen now, boys. I can't be a newsie forever. I didn't want any of you's to know, but I've been lookin' around the city for a new job. Well, they're offerin' to let me come and work as a sailor, unloadin' cargo and the like. In a couple weeks, I'll be sayin' goodbye to you boys."

"What are we gonna do?" One of newsies called. "You're our leader!"

"Yeah, well ya got a new leader now," Kilt replied, putting a hand on Spot's good shoulder. "He's young, but he's got the brains an' the heart and the guts to take care of ya bummers from now on." He looked over at Spot and grinned as he noted, "A king and his scepter."

For the first time, Spot took a look at the stick he was holding. It was a gold-tipped cane - apparently some kind of prop the theater next door had just thrown out - but in his eyes, it came to symbolize his leadership. A king indeed. In just a few years, he'd gone from street rat to king of Brooklyn.

It took a couple months for the boys to start looking up to him, to really think of him as their leader. But once they wrapped their heads around the idea, they came to show him the same respect they'd held for Kilt, if not more. It felt as though leadership was in his blood, like he was always meant to one day direct the newsies - and he did it well.

Above all, the boys came first. As time went on, his protective instinct grew stronger - if there was a threat, he was willing to lay down his life to defend them. That reputation as a fearless fighter had a way of intimidating the newsies of other boroughs, eliminating all competition in the Brooklyn territory. Even snakes like Oscar and Morris were afraid to cross him.

But that reputation wasn't what earned the respect of his boys. They admired him for his loyalty, for so often putting his interests aside for the sake of the group, for his Brooklyn pride. Though so many of the boys were older than Spot himself, he became something of a big brother to all of them. Sometimes he had to show some tough love, but in the end he always put them first, just as Kilt taught him.

He loved being their leader, but the weight of responsibility was often draining. At night, he climbed up to his attic room in the boarding house, separated from all the other boys downstairs, and just unwound from the heavy stress of being in charge. The boarding house was old and had taken a bit of storm damage some years back, so there was an enormous hole in the wall that looked out over the rooftops of Brooklyn, facing the East River. He often found himself just staring at this picture of the city, at the river that Kilt was bound to be sailing, somewhere. Sometimes, he secretly wished he could sail away too.

But he loved Brooklyn, and he loved his boys. He may have run away from his old apartment, but he would never run from his home. And, to Spot, home would always be with the newsies.

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**If you liked it, please review! :)**


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